There is a kind whose paths leave emptiness. A plight that cares not beyond its current thirst. The ones who shed its own blood. Us.
In ones and zeroes we witness our betrayal; skin-deep echoes of societal portrayals. Deceptions. Fabrications. Of a fatal existence dressed in wondrous fables.
Only in shimmering lights do we find ourselves; a truth spoken by the old; a worth weight in gold; rapture for those whose souls are sold.
Out of our time, I had rhyme. Out of your pit, I had no leech. Now I’m here, alive and well with a tale to tell; but just for you, Hell.
We could’ve had a blast if not for the demons of our past. We would’ve had the future shine but not for the dark of our minds. We should’ve had our hearts placed in more than just a glass safe. We could’ve would’ve should’ve been more than this world’s death.
I’ve been a slave to my demons; unwilling victim of two-faced humans. Then again, the angels were never my friends; just a means to an end.
You were a time, the only one I called mine; reminded me of a time, filled with roses and rhymes; held me at a time, through fantasy’s lines. You were a time, my broken spine; reminded me of a time, a bloodshot of pine; held me at a time, I didn’t call mine.